


Hell Follows With Him

by samidha



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Before 6.06, Comment Fic, Could be seen as a tag for 6.05 but not really, Gen, Longer Comment Fic, POV Impala, Season/Series 06, Sharp Teeth Gen Horror Comment Fic Meme 2010, Written in time with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-29
Updated: 2010-10-29
Packaged: 2018-12-11 12:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11714262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samidha/pseuds/samidha
Summary: The Impala weighs in on (Soulless) Sam.





	Hell Follows With Him

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to get allllllllll my uploading done this weekend into early next week at the latest so apologies for that. I would create a wee "here are all my commentfics in one place" document but I don't find that accessible. Backdated this one but uploading all my Supernatural works in 2017 (except those noted as by my new pseud). I'm nearing the end.

She starts small. Sam hasn't done anything that's unforgivable, not yet. He's a little wooden, that's all. A little bit of metal pops loose under Sam's seat. It catches him on the leg. Just to wake him up a little, remind him who she really is, and what that means.

He gets into the driver's side and she is... Unhappy is an understatement. She is not his, has never been his, and if he doesn't shape up, she never will be.

Besides, Dean is right as rain as far as she's concerned. She doesn't need to take this from Sam.

The brakes might be a little tempermental, but they only fail Sam the once.

The second time he hits them, they work fine.

"Jesus Christ," he growls, when what he should be saying is _I'm sorry_. He wishes for his Charger back. She does too.

They switch off driving long before Dean has gotten the rest he needs. The brakes work fine as anything for him and he shoots Sam a _what the fuck look_ , but he doesn't mind driving his baby, he never does.

She knows that much.

The next time Sam is driving, she feels the _wrongness_ between them like it is a living thing.

This is not the boy she remembers. Or the man she remembers, either.

Dean is tired, bone tired, and they are going to have to switch off again. Fuck it all, she is not going to let Sam drive her. At least not safely.

Sure, she might incur some damage, but he will be hurt worse, and Dean always takes good care of her. He will bang out the dents, replace the parts. She could use the alone-time with him. Short of going through the inventory of his arsenal every few weeks, reassuring himself that it is all there, she hasn't had the time with him that she wants.

And now there's Sam.

Something is wrong with him, and the way his scent has changed is only the beginning, the tiny tip of an iceberg inside of him that screams _broken, damaged, wrong_ as soon as he gets within ten feet of her.

He smells wrong. He smells like hell. Frigid and dark where she used to expect fire. But no, fire is a good smell, the smell of victory. The smell of hell is of cold expanses and emptiness, nothingness. The ichor of demons. She remembers the scent from Dean, in the days, weeks, months, after she got him back.

She had sworn to herself never to smell that smell again.

And now there is Sam, and there is the scent, but it's the way Sam has _become_ hell that frightens her, angers her.

Whatever he did there, he took it into himself, wears it like a trophy, pushes away his better, human judgment. He thinks in terms of hell topside. He has brought it with him, and he _likes_ it.

She has heard that he bested the devil, and he is proud as anything.

That isn't new to her, or Sam.

She will make him shove that pride up his own ass.

It starts to rain and she says a prayer of thanks. Buckets of rain, as if they're just being overturned on top of her, spilling out in one go. Over and over again.

She makes sure the wipers do not wipe, but snag halfway up and fall back down, so that he has no prayer of seeing where he's going.

"What is it with you and my car?" Dean asks.

"I told you I should have kept the Charger," is Sam's only reply.

She doesn't paint the road with Sam's blood, but it is close.

Then. Oh, and _then_. He just watches. He _watches_. And the look on his face is evil. It is as if he is the devil himself, and for all she knows he is.

First she makes sure that Dean is gone, talking to Bobby a safe distance away, inside a room with a door between them.

It will take some time for him to notice Sam is gone, driving her toward a source for coffee, half his brain invested in a conversation with Samuel about his precious Alphas.

That's when she starts to spit exhaust at him. The rate would be called unnatural. Unheard of. She remembers how to do it because Sam himself taught her, replaying the vision of Max Miller's father, windows closed and garage door closed and--

Shit. That's the missing piece.

It doesn't work, not as they are sitting in a mostly empty parking lot.

Too much air.

He coughs a little, and she regains her sense of duty.

If she killed Sam, Dean would never feel right inside of her again. And as he coughs and yawns and rubs his eyes, she sees him again, she sees Sam.

She's angry. She's livid. But she is not a murderer.

She can't bring this home to Dean.

She is his sense of home, she is his calm in the storm. She was, she is, she will be.

So they are going to have to find a way to fix Sam.

Before he gets even worse.

She can't make a promise that she'll stop herself next time.


End file.
